


Static

by Jaeh, Shwatsonlocked



Series: Mobile [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaeh/pseuds/Jaeh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shwatsonlocked/pseuds/Shwatsonlocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Static messages in an alternate universe. Companion pieces to fic 'Mobile'; read that to understand fully, but these can be read as stand-alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Things weren't the same for Greg since Sherlock died. John wasn't the same since Sherlock died either.

_Friday 10 August  21:00_  
  
He was in the Yard when his mobile rang. Greg was just about to leave - he already had his coat in one hand and case in the other. Greg sighed, knowing that the end of his day was too good to be true. It was probably going to be another case handed to him, off-the-clock be damned. "Hello?"  
  
To Greg’s surprise, the voice on the other end was John Watson, and he sounded a bit anxious.  
"Greg, hi. I was wondering if you'd want to join me for a pint tonight?"  
  
He glanced at the clock. His wife was probably waiting for him to come home, but Greg wasn't really up for her nagging. He smiled to himself. "Sure, where do I meet you?"  
  
"I was thinking The Black Lion, off of High Street. Do you know it?"  
  
"I can find it easily enough.” He peered at the clock again. High Street was a good distance away, but Greg didn’t mind. He had time to kill. “See you in 30?"  
  
"Yeah, sounds good. See you then." Greg slipped the mobile back into his pocket, and headed out the door. He turned off the lights.  
  
As usual, he was the last one for his shift left in the station.  
  
As he had been the past couple of weeks. There were cases he needed to look into and solve, and cases that he’d solved that he had to look back into. And it was all because of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
It was always Sherlock’s fault when Greg had to stay in after cases. It was either Sherlock had tampered or touched evidence that he shouldn’t and Greg had to magic it away, or he needed to magic his report that would show  _Greg himself_ making the deductions and the decisions.  
  
Greg had seriously given thought to being a fictional writer, since he looked like he was doing a bloody good job of it.  
  
But then Sherlock had to be found out, and Sherlock had to die. He threw a curse down Moriarty’s path, and another down the chief’s path. And maybe two in Sally and Anderson’s general directions.  
  
Sherlock had to die, and  _pretend_ to be fake (because he can’t have been a fake- too much of an arrogant prat to be fake), now Greg had to work more hours each day and look at and assess all his former cases that may or may not have been touched by Sherlock and...  
  
Greg sighed. This was all very... what was that word Sherlock used...  _tedious_.  
  
The cab dropped him off in front of the pub. He walked inside and looked around, hoping to find John. He saw John in a corner booth, already nursing a pint.  
  
When the other man saw Greg, he waved him over. "John." Greg said with a tired smile, taking a seat in the booth. He dropped his things on his seat, and leaned back lazily.  
  
The two men had been meeting every few days for a pint and to talk. Greg knew John could use the distraction, and hell, Greg needed it too. Especially now, since the Yard was convinced that he had to prove his abilities by overworking his arse, not to mention looking into all his case files to see if he should keep his job. After what had happened with Sherlock, the Yard had been keeping him under strict observation.  
  
Greg looked like he'd been through hell. His wife always pointed out the additional wrinkles that gathered around his eyes, and that his hair seemed whiter.  
  
John looked like he’d been through hell, too. Deep blue eyes, normally clear and alert, were piercing him with the misery of a man who had lost so much. His normally resolute shoulders were slumped, even if his natural military air was still present.    
  
Greg supposed that seeing your best friend jump off a building would do that. "Greg, thanks for coming on short notice. How's the Yard?"  
  
"It's been hell. They’ve been looking into my records, lately." Greg said, choosing his words carefully. "They sent me some reports on cases they think I could have managed without Sherlock's help." Greg grimaced. "I needed this drink - your timing is excellent."  
  
John gave a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry to hear that. Sher-" The man's voice gave slightly, and Greg tried not to wince -  "Sherlock would probably disagree with their assessment."  
  
" I  disagree with their assessment." Greg wasn’t ashamed to admit that. It was the whole reason he’d gone to the consulting detective. He went to the bar to grab a pint, taking a large mouthful of the frothy drink when he returned. Honestly, Greg was concerned with how the doctor was coping. Hopefully he’d be able to pull it together with time. 

 "How have you been holding up?"  
  
John took another drink from his mug and swiped across his mouth before leaning heavily on his elbow. "It's been...it's been bad Greg. I turn to ask if he wants tea and...I remember he's not there." John appeared to sink into his chair, and his shoulders slumped further.  
  
Greg shut his eyes, and sighed. He massaged the bridge of his nose. "I'm... sorry, John." He offered lamely. "We've been having some hard cases he would have enjoyed." He laughed bitterly. "Anderson's about to pull his hair out because of it. He almost admitted that he wanted Sherlock around." He frowned at John, at a loss on how to help him.  
  
John gave a small chuckle. "Anderson? Miss Sherlock? I think it's the end-times Greg." They sat in silence, neither sure what to say. John opened his mouth a couple times, before closing it again. Greg watched John curiously, trying to decipher what the man had on his mind.  
  
John's voice was quieter when he asked the question he'd been clearly mulling over. "Where...do you think we go when we die?"  
  
Greg knotted his forehead in confusion. "I... why are you asking me this, John?"  
  
John's gaze was fixed on the pint in front of him as he spoke. "I was just wondering where he's at now. I don't know what to believe. Heaven, Hell, Reincarnation...nothingness. Surely he can't just be...gone."  
  
Greg had a sinking feeling that he knew what John was talking about, planning on doing, but he refused to acknowledge it. "I wouldn't know." He finally said, and took a long drink. "Some bloke in the Yard got shot once, and woke up proclaiming he saw heaven. Another insisted he floated above his body for a minute." He looked away.  
  
There was silence between them. Greg exhaled audibly. "John, please don't do anything stupid."  
  
John smiled at Greg bitterly. "Floating? That's interesting. Maybe he's a ghost now then, haunting his grave." John finished his drink and stood up. "I think I'm going to walk to clear my head. Don't worry, I won't do anything rash tonight. Bye, Greg."  
  
"John, wait - " Greg stood up, his hand comically stretched out towards John, but the man was already too far for him to reach. He simply shook his head, before deciding to get another pint. Hopefully that would get rid of the knots in his stomach.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Static messages in an alternate universe. Companion pieces to fic 'Mobile'; read that to understand fully, but these can be read as stand-alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tea with Mrs Hudson.

_Sunday 12 August 16:20_

John was sitting on the sofa thinking, when Mrs Hudson knocked and stepped into the flat with her tea tray.

"John dearie! Are you in? I brought you some tea." she said warmly.

"Ah, Mrs Hudson. Just the woman I wanted to see. Tea's lovely, thank you." John gestured to the sofa. "Would you stay, please? I need to talk with you."

Mrs Hudson started in surprise, but then nodded. "Of course, dear. What is it?" She asked, obviously avoiding the elephant in the room.

"I'm planning to do something in a few days and I don't want you to worry." John said, looking at Mrs Hudson solemnly.

A look of confusion stole across her face. "What do you mean, John dear? I already know you're moving. It would be sad to see you go, but I understand completely."

"I'm afraid this is a bit more than me moving out." John breathed deeply, and decided to cut to the chase instead of leading slowly to it. "I'm going to fake my death, and I couldn't just go ahead without letting you know." He stared at Mrs Hudson for a moment, who looked more confused than ever. "Besides, you're a wonderful actress."

"What are you talking about, John?"

"I can't...be John Watson anymore. People who knew about Sherlock and me, they just stare at me like I'm some lost little puppy." John sighed. He hated feeling helpless.

That was what Sherlock made him feel. Helpless. When John watched him jump and there was nothing he could do... John shook his head. He knew he was far from helpless. Only Sherlock, really. Only Sherlock.

John looked into Mrs Hudson's eyes. "I need a fresh start and the only way I know how to get that is to fake my death."

His landlady seemed to be thinking over his plan, obviously concerned for his safety. "Will I see you again, John?"

"Oh, I expect so. You're my favourite landlady. I'll check in when I can." John smiled in reassurance.

"Glad to hear that." Without missing a beat, Mrs Hudson smiled, and patted John's knee. "Be careful then, dear."

John smiled. He felt like Mrs Hudson was taking the news rather well, like John was just going to take a walk to the park or to the nearest pub. "I want to warn you though, about the mess I'll be making up here. I'm going to have to shoot a corpse in the head and splatter my blood on the wall. I'm sorry about that in advance."

Mrs Hudson frowned and tutted softly. "Well dear, I hope you do intend to still pay your last month of the rent, then. New wallpaper and furniture cleaners aren't cheap, you know." She smiled, and gave John a motherly hug. "I will miss you, John dear."

John grinned, and wrapped his arms around the woman. "Thank you for everything. Mrs H. I'll leave the rent for you before I go."

"Now you take care of yourself. When will you do it?"

"In three days, probably afternoon." John paused, and look at Mrs. Hudson. "Would you be able to be downstairs while I...you know?"

"I will gladly stay away from your nasty business. You know how I am about blood." Mrs Hudson said.

"Right, okay. Thanks for the tea Mrs H." Mrs Hudson was going to do just fine without him around to take up her flat.

John smiled to himself. He wasn't worried about her at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, that's right. Mrs Hudson knew. Hopefully you don't hate us for that...or if you do, please let us know! Love it/hate it, comments/kudos are, as always, loved and adored. Thank you for being such wonderful readers!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Static messages in an alternate universe. Companion pieces to fic 'Mobile'; read that to understand fully, but these can be read as stand-alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John couldn’t resist the urge to stay and watch. To make sure everything had gone smoothly.

John knocked on the door of 221A, rent money tucked into an envelope with a nice and succinct thank you note for Mrs Hudson (he promptly ran out of words to say after ‘thank you for everything’, and had to push through to end with ‘take care’ after a couple more lines). He’d dropped the bin bag in front of the door to the street so he wouldn’t be holding rubbish when he said goodbye to his landlady.  Mrs Hudson was already speaking as she opened the door.

  
“John dear, what are you doing? The neighbors will have heard that racket.” She tutted softly, concern written all over her face at it wrinkled around the edges. John knew that she knows what would happen, and he could read the worry in her eyes.   
  
That was almost enough to make him  reconsider , but no, no, too far to back out now.   
  
“It’s showtime, Mrs Hudson.” He said instead, handing her the envelope. “Here’s the rent, as promised. Do me a favour and call Greg Lestrade after you call about the body? Number’s in the envelope if you need it.”    
  
“Of course, John. Now, you get away from here before someone sees you and the mess you made in my flat is for nothing.” Mrs Hudson chided gently, giving John a kiss on the forehead before sending him away. “Take care of yourself.”   
  
John nodded and left, grabbing the bag on his way out. He walked to Laurie’s ‘94 Accord and tossed the bin bag into the boot before getting in and starting the engine. He’d gotten a block away when he pulled over. He couldn’t resist the urge to stay and watch. To make sure everything had gone smoothly, he told himself unconvincingly. It was because he wanted to see if everything would go according to plan, he insisted, not because he was having a hard time letting go of the life that he had.   
  
John walked down the alley that would allow him to see 221 without being spotted. He watches as Mrs Hudson step outside, crying rather believably. She probably would have made a great actress on West End. Not even a minute later, Lestrade’s car screeched to a halt, the man virtually jumping from the driver’s seat.   
  
John watched with apprehension as his friend ran into the flat, waited as the sirens grew louder and louder before the emergency vehicles crowded the space in front of the flat. Barriers were erected, keeping back the small crowd of people who’d been on the street.   
  
He exhaled a breath that he was holding as he watched Anderson step into the flat, knowing that the man would take care of most of the details. Everything was going according to plan, and as pleased as he was by this, he felt a lot more sorry for the others he was leaving behind.   
  
John was startled from his passive watch when a tall man with curly, ginger hair stopped sprinting in front of his vantage spot of 221. The man was turned away from John, facing the flat, and to John it appeared as if the man was more apprehensive than he was. As ‘John Watson’s’ corpse was wheeled out of the house, the man fell to his knees, shaking like something devastating had just occurred. Concerned that the man was having a heart attack or something similar, he watched as the man stretched out an arm to support himself against the building wall. John reacted automatically like the doctor he was and, without even thinking, broke his cover to check on the man.    
  
His hand touched the slumped shoulder and was about to ask if the stranger was alright when he was batted away. John shook his head, exhaling again, and backed away. He knew that he would need to fight his impulse to act like a doctor, to help people. Doctor John Watson had just died and it wouldn’t do for someone who looked like him to possess the same skill set. At least, not publicly.    
  
John glanced up from the stranger to see a flash of silver hair exiting the building, and he turned away from the scene. He didn’t want to see the look on Greg’s face - he could imagine it very well and did not want a visual confirmation. John felt bloody awful for putting the man through this. He quickly walked back to the car, eager now to put some distance between himself and his old life.    
  
Once back behind the wheel, John navigated back onto Marylebone Rd, heading west to Paddington Station. It only took him 12 minutes to get there with the traffic, which, thankfully, wasn’t enough for him to ruminate over what he just watched. He parked Laurie’s Accord in the car park and grabbed his things from the back seat.    
  
He purchased his one-way ticket to Exeter St. David’s with the last of his quid. Luckily the train was departing in 10 minutes and he was quickly able to find a seat in relative privacy. He pulled out his new mobile to send a text to Doctor Laurie.   
  
** Left your car at Paddington Station. Getting rid of the things in the boot can be your apology for your car getting me pulled over. I only paid for an hour, so you better hurry.    
-JW **   
  
Switching the phone off, John,  _no_ , Arthur settled in for the 2 hour trip. Taking one last look at the station, he knew the next time he came back, John Watson would be no more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's read/commented/kudos'd etc. Love you all! Let us know what you think, we love to hear from you <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Static messages in an alternate universe. Companion pieces to fic "Mobile"; read that to understand fully, but these can be read as stand-alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He had never felt so human and he hated it.

Mycroft was in a very important meeting when the call from his surveillance team arrived. He stood and smiled diplomatically at the Ambassador. If he was annoyed, he didn't show it. "If you will excuse me, I'm afraid I need to take this call."

"This had better be important, Jasmine." His assistant had recently moved on to Disney Princess names.

She answered quickly and succinctly. "It's about John Watson. He made a visit to your brother's grave today. He was saying goodbye."

"Well that hardly seems worrying." Mycroft answered, annoyance seeping into his words a little. His brother's grave. References to the 'incident', as he and his brother termed it, were not welcome and it made him feel a little unbalanced. "He's done that twice a week the past few months. It's nothing new."

"It was how he said it, sir. I think he means to kill himself."

Mycroft sighed. If John Watson died, Sherlock would fall to pieces. How tedious. He did not want to see his brother that way. It would distract the both of them greatly. "Very well. I'll take care of it." He disconnected and sent a text to the emergency mobile his brother was keeping.

**Return to Baker Street. Doctor Watson wants to die.**

**MH**

Time to return to that meeting.

\-----

When Sherlock got that text, he was an hour away from the flat. He wasn't too concerned about being recognized, but he was very anxious for another reason entirely. Surely John wouldn't – he was a soldier. He'd seen plenty of his friends die. It simply wasn't logical for him to do this. _Right?_

Sherlock could feel his stomach twisting anyway. He felt as if he needed to hurry. That was irrational, he thought to himself. Why would he want to hurry? Why is he anxious? John would never kill himself. It is not in his character, not in his behaviour.

 _Right?_ Right.

He ran from the tube stop anyway. He stopped when he was almost across from the flat. He could see the emergency vehicles crowded around Baker Street. Sherlock took a few shaky steps closer.

"No..."

There was a body being wheeled out of 221B.

His world began to spin.

Sherlock Holmes had killed his only friend. He collapsed to his knees, feeling ill. His chest hurt and he couldn't breathe. He steadied himself against the wall with one hand, and felt someone touch his shoulder but Sherlock waved them away.

He had never felt so human and he hated it. The first time he'd let his walls down since childhood, allowed sentiment to have some hold over him and he hurt. He hurt a lot.

His cheeks were wet. It wasn't raining.

' _Friends protect people.'_

Sherlock had failed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Stay tuned for more. We're working on the next chapter of Mobile, and there's another chapter of Static coming after this one. Thank you very much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Static messages in an alternate universe. Companion pieces to fic 'Mobile'; read that to understand fully, but these can be read as stand-alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t help you now, brother.

 

Mycroft's mobile rang.

He knew what had happened before he even heard him speak. He hoped he was wrong. He wasn't.

"M-mycroft. Mycroft." His younger brother sounded distressed. No, Mycroft corrected himself. More than distressed.

He sounded devastated. Forlorn.

He was crying.

"Sherlock, breathe." Mycroft said softly.

"Mycroft _he's dead_. John. I didn't make it in time. I - "

His little brother cried harder. It had been years since he heard Sherlock cry, and Mycroft's reportedly icy heart twisted at what he was hearing.

"I couldn't stop him Mycroft. He's dead. And it's all my fault."

Mycroft pressed his lips together, and shut his eyes.

When they were younger, Sherlock would come running to him when a pet died.

Sherlock would start crying over his 'bestest friend ever', cradling the poor animal in his arms. 'He's dead, Mycroft." He would sniff. "My hedgehog died. James died."

Mycroft would give him a hug. Together the brothers would put the critter in a shoebox and bury it in the backyard. Sherlock would wrap his arms around Mycroft, press his face into his older brother's stomach, and cry.

The very next day, Mycroft would bring him a new pet. A new friend to take his mind off the creature they buried in the backyard.

Sherlock would be ecstatic. He will immediately take his new friend into his room, and spend the whole day with it.

It never failed to make his younger brother happy.

Mycroft opened his eyes.

His younger brother still sobbed into the phone, but sounded like he was trying to pull himself together. It didn't do good for a Holmes to cry, after all - this was something taught to them since they first understood what the word cry even meant.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Mycroft said. "I'm so sorry."

The phone clicked off, and Mycroft stared at it for a moment before putting it down.

Mycroft sighed. He buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." _I can't help you now, brother._

_I can't replace your best friend._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Shouldn't be too much longer until chapter 4 of Mobile is finished and ready for posting, but in the meantime, we hope you enjoyed this chapter. Liked it, hated it? Let us know with a comment! Thanks for reading <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fictional characters were harmed in the writing of these stories, and consequently, this chapter. Also, we are hiding an important plot point, jsyk. 
> 
> Important A/N: We edited Mobile chapter 2 to reflect that Harry is John's _older_ sister, because of recent canonical developments, i.e., we were looking at John's blog and realised our error. Woops.

It was too nice outside, far too nice to bury someone. Funerals were supposed to have grey skies and pour down rain that hides the tears. It had rained at both her dad’s funeral and her grandmum’s, and it had felt like the world was rightly grieving along with her family. But today, instead of rain, the sun was partly hidden behind white clouds. It wasn't too hot, nor too cold. Molly wished it was a bit more overcast, because the sunny weather made it seem like John Watson wasn't dead. The day was just too nice for such a sad event.  
  
Molly was no stranger to death, but she’d never expected to be attending another funeral so soon. Not that Sherlock’s really counted, as he’s not dead...she only wished John had known. Molly glanced around, smiling sadly. There were a lot of people at John’s funeral, people that cared about him. It was sad that he’d felt so alone.  
  
To be honest, she couldn’t help feeling guilty. She knew something, knew what John needed to know, but she couldn’t tell him. She could have prevented his death, Molly knew, and she could’ve done something.   
  
Sometimes, she couldn't help cursing that promise, that horrible promise she made to one Sherlock Holmes that she could not tell anyone that he was alive. It wasn't fair to blame him, Molly thought, since she agreed after all, asking him what he needed, and besides, it wasn't as if she knew. She should have known (but, no, that wasn't right to blame herself either, was it?) what kind of repercussions this might bring on John.  
  
Molly realised that she didn't really know John well enough, and for that she was really sorry. But still, she at least wanted to be at John's funeral, keeping watch for his not-really-dead best friend. She made a mental note to bring him vase of flowers every now and again, and make sure that the area was clean, even if others would probably do that as well. She didn't owe Sherlock or John anything,  she simply wanted to do a kind thing for another soul.  
  
She felt a bit like an outside observer, so that's what she did. She observed.  
  
The ceremony was small, obviously only close friends were invited, and those who cared enough came. There was still a stigma attached to John and Sherlock's names, and she thought that there would probably be more people - even a military ceremony - if there weren't all these horrible rumours surrounding Sherlock's death. And now John’s too, she supposed, especially since the man killed himself so close to his best friend's suicide. The tabloids would have some sort of horrible Romeo-Juliet story if they caught wind of John's suicide, and it only took a phone call from Sherlock to his brother to stop any news coming out about John.  
  
She felt a bit awful that she seemed to be slinging around the words death and suicide a bit callously, even if it was only in her mind.   
  
The casket had been carried by Greg, Mike, Anderson, and a few other people Molly didn't know. For a second, she was grateful that Sherlock was not here to see this, because Molly didn't think she could stand to see the same crushed look in Greg's eyes transfer to Sherlock’s crumbling façade whenever he thought he was alone. Sherlock still thought no one else saw, but Molly did. Molly saw how this whole situation was already taking a toll on the man, even if his eyes were half hidden by ginger curls and intense concentration.  
  
There was a pastor who said the traditional bit of ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and uttered a small prayer for those whom John left behind. Molly didn't really have a strong belief when it comes to God and religion, but she said a small prayer for those John left behind as well, thinking especially of Sherlock, who still had a job to do.  
  
Molly sighed, looking up at the sky, and hoped that wherever John Watson was, he could see how _not alone_ he really was.  
  
\---  
  
A few days ago, her brother had dropped by to say good bye, and he lied to save her pain.  
  
Not that it helped, that bastard. Mountains, her arse, he definitely wasn't talking about heading off to the Paradise when he talked to her the last time. What he’d meant was out of London into the New Jerusalem, meet me at the Pearly Gates, and all the metaphors of heaven from church when they were children.  
  
Harry eyed her little brother's casket. Pine stained red mahogany. It was beautiful, and it reminded Harry of their mother's coffin. During Mum's viewing, she remembered that her mother had looked so beautiful, so peaceful. All the lines of stress had faded, and she looked as beautiful as she did in the wedding pictures that hung over their mantle.  
  
Even her dad hadn't looked like he was angry and disgusted with her, like he was when she came out to her parents. He just looked peaceful, asleep really.  
  
Harry wasn’t able to even look at John's face because the casket was closed. When they told her how he died, she knew it wouldn’t be pretty, and to be honest she would rather imagine John as he was in her memory and in pictures. She did _not_ want to see her baby brother look like a wax museum piece. Reconstruction would take hours, was expensive, and she honestly just wanted to get this over with.  
  
There was no sense in prolonging the agony for everyone, especially for her.  
  
Clara reminded her that she should speak about John. She didn’t really want to at first, but Clara, sweet Clara, had convinced her. She was the only family John had left, and she hadn’t even been good at that.  
Harry really didn't know what she wanted to say, what she _should_ say, and Clara had helped her through a night of blurred eyesight and shaky writing.  
  
God, Harry really did still love her, and it took her brother dying to realise it. Typical John, fixing her mistakes. Even in death he just wouldn't stop taking care of her.  
  
This was almost enough to send her giggling in sad hysterics, and she had to take a few deep breaths to stop herself. Clara squeezed her hand, and sadly glanced at the microphone in the front.  
  
It was her turn to speak, and good lord, she really didn't want to. She stood up and went in front anyway, hand clutching a small handkerchief just in case, and started to read.  
  
“John was my brother and...and we barely got on at the best of times,” Harry began, struggling to read the cards in her hand.  She closed her eyes, settling herself.  
  
She didn't really need the flashback of every single fight and every single reconciliation they'd had.  
  
"But I love him so much."  
  
She swallowed. _Just go through with it, finish the damn cards, as fast as you can, so you can sit back down._  
  
"I'll never forget how he stood by me when I came out to our parents."  
  
She told him first, really, before she told her parents, and his response was to buy her ice cream and bicker about whether they were taking the Tube or a cab home. It was reassuring to her, to know that nothing would change between them.  
  
When she blurted it out to her parents, her father had been so angry and so disgusted, and before her mum could step in, she'd already yelled back. Her dad raised his hand to hit her -  
  
And John stopped him. He was only fourteen, though with considerable strength in his own right, and John shook as he pulled their father's hand back with a quiet "No, please Dad, that's still _Harry._ "  
  
It made Harry see her insufferable little brother in a new light.  
  
She exhaled slowly to get herself back under control, tightly squeezing the handkerchief in her hand. "He was the sort of bloke that everyone just likes instantly - nobody really knew what it was about him, but he got on with everyone he met, which was a bit funny, really, because he was the kid who came home with multiple bruises every month from fights - though nowhere near the face, the lucky git. And it wasn't that he was fighting for himself - it was because he was defending some poor sod from a bully."  
  
Harry was rambling now, and she knew she was, but she didn't care. This was what speeches were good for, rambling, especially about her brother, her lovable brother. It helped, somehow, to talk about him in any way.  
  
It felt like she was preserving his memory, somehow, by doing this.  
  
"I remember the only time he came home with a black eye - he'd been careful until then. It was the only time Dad actually asked him about his bruises, because that one was just horrible. One of his mates was some boffin named Edwin, I think, who was far too smart, and you know how horrible it was to not be an idiot in school especially if you weren’t part of any athletic teams. Despite being a popular bloke on the rugby team, John befriended Edwin. Didn't really do any for Edwin's status, but John always fought for him whenever someone called him a loser, a creep, or a freak. Until one day, some blighter decided to give Edwin a beating, and John was there to see it. You can just imagine what happened. Oh don't worry, John beat the other kid's face in."  
  
This elicited a bit of laughter from the others, and Harry brightened a little. She was the one who broke up that fight, she remembered, by hollering for one of the teachers. John had actually almost punched the other kid's face in and had reduced him to a crying mess, and all he got was a blackened eye for his troubles.  
  
"Johnny really cared about people, wanted to help them, " she continued, eyes bright. Tears were starting to threaten the edges of her vision again. She just... She'd never see him again, see John all beat up, in bandages  and looking like some unsung hero from a pub brawl. "It was why he joined the RAMF in the first place, and why he became a doctor."  
  
How John decided to become a doctor had been part of the worst day of Harry's life, until now. It was how their mum died, with the idiots claiming to be doctors completely missing the signs of the stroke. They thought her chest pain was a heart attack, but by the time they’d figured it out, it was too late. John swore that he’d be better than all of them.   
  
John reacted to what had happened with his stubborn strength and determination. Harry simply started getting pissed more often.  
  
She was actually pissed the day he told her he was enlisting. When she asked if he wanted to leave her, he’d said no, and Harry knew he was lying. She could see it in his eyes that he wanted to leave, desperately. It wasn’t his responsibility to take care of his poor sister who couldn’t cope with losing her mum, but she knew he’d have stayed if she asked.  
  
She’d let him go.  
  
Harry closed her eyes, and gripped the microphone tighter, afraid that she might let go. Her voice broke a little. "It was easy to forget that he was actually my younger brother. He- he tried to take care of me and I admired and resented him for it. I remember the phone calls and the occasional visits to check if I was sober - it was like I had a probation officer." She smiled sadly at the memory, and out of habit, pulled out the phone from her coat pocket. "God, I promised him I'd phone him today." She shuddered involuntarily, and stared down at the mobile in her hand.  
  
She expected John's name to flash on her phone. Any minute now. Any minute.  
  
She turned around, her vision focusing in on the coffin. Funny, she thought she was done remembering stories about the things. They had been stuck at the funeral home as kids, bored to death. Harry and John had wandered to where the caskets were on display, and though it gave Harry the chills, John had run ahead and hidden in one of them, waiting for the right time to slowly push it open and groan like a zombie.  
  
Harry almost hit him over the head with a nearby urn.  
  
"John, just… please - " She breathed, walking to the casket. Harry ran a hand on the rails, expecting the lid to fly open any minute now, and John laughing, like when they were kids - "John please, Johnny, stop playing around! GET OUT OF THIS CASKET NOW YOU GIT! THIS ISN'T FUNNY ANYMORE!"  
  
Someone was screaming. Why were they screaming? Too loud. Someone just died, they really should be quiet, she was mourning, just mourning her baby brother. Arms wrapped around her shoulders, and Harry vaguely registered that Clara was guiding her away under a tree, far from the others.  
  
"Please, John I'll stop drinking, I'll do anything, just... I'll stop. I promise...just please… please don't - "  
  
She broke into sobs, holding on to Clara, sobbing openly.  
  
Harry just lost one of the few people she knew who cared, who loved her, and it just… hurt.  
  
\-----  
  
Greg tried not to stare as John's sister was escorted away. This wasn't easy for any of them, especially him, and he couldn’t even fathom how it felt for her. He stood and picked up the microphone. "I…." he started, staring at the piece of paper in his hand. Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose, and looked up at the crowd, slightly crumpling the speech he made. "John Watson, is a man who....” He paused to centre his emotions. He didn't want to just start crying in front of all these people. He worked with a fair few of them.  
  
It was just too soon, much too soon. He just buried - god, he just buried Sherlock a month ago.   
  
He breathed slowly, inhaling through his nose, exhaling through his mouth. He'd slipped in at the last minute to sit in the back. It was a small affair, only friends and family - rather like this one, to be honest, and that actually made this harder than it should be.  
  
Everyone from Sherlock's funeral was here, except Mycroft Holmes. Even the stoic soldier who had stood to one side, quiet and strong, staring out into the distance like he was somewhere else altogether was present, in a manner.   
  
It was that stoic soldier that he was burying today. His façade finally cracked, and Greg was just sorry he couldn't mend the pieces. He felt… good god, Greg had never felt so guilty in his life. It felt like he'd killed two people, even if everyone told him it wasn't his fault. He still felt like he'd failed them. Both of them. He should never have let John walk out of that pub a week ago.  
  
"He is - was, was a good friend of mine." Was. Past tense. How final.  
  
He exhaled again. He didn't know how to continue anymore. The memory of John's body on the sofa was so _vivid,_ and every time he closed his eyes, he could still see it. Could hear the words of John's note repeat in his head.  
  
 _I feel so alone. I quit._  
  
 _Bury me next to him._  
  
At least they were able to honour John's last request. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sherlock's headstone glinting in the bright sun.  
  
"If you'd told me the short, jumper clad man who came limping after Sherlock to that serial suicide scene would have become one of the strongest people I've ever met and one of my best mates, I'd have thought you were a complete nutter,” he said. “That was the thing about John.  People underestimate him.” Greg winced, realising he’d slipped into present tense.   
  
“He looked harmless enough, like he was something you'd want to protect. But he didn’t need protection. John was one of my best and strongest mates and - and -" _And maybe I overestimated him. I still can't believe he did_ this.  
  
“And I’m going to miss our pub nights, especially when it’s his turn to buy the next round.” He grinned absently at the memory. Actually, John had insisted when he learned of the long-standing tradition of Greg’s team that the last one to join them buys the next round of drinks, despite the fact that he hadn’t found a new job yet, was living on his meager army pension, and that there were almost more than ten people to buy drinks for. He never backed down from that, even if it became more and more frequent because of... well, usually it was because of Sherlock, but John never minded. He paid for every pint with a huge grin, and though for the most part he would remain and talk merely to Greg and not much of the others, the team liked John around anyway.   
  
Greg breathed, and continued. It was easier to recount the memories, like they were someone else's. Easier than feeling the loss of his friend and the fact that he should have _known_ and done something about it. “I don’t know if you have ever seen John handle a gun, and even if I would never admit to seeing him use one, I would never go against him in a stand-off. He never flinches, despite being scared out of his wits, and I can see what made him a good army doctor. He’s one of the few men whom I would trust to watch my back.” That night was still sharp in his mind as well as some of his nightmares, and Greg didn’t want to encounter a huge black dog at night ever again (made it harder to go to his in-laws, especially with that black english mastiff that his father-in-law had - hell, when that thing bounded up to him when they arrived around midnight he almost shot it....)And he wasn’t an idiot - Greg knew it was John who shot that cabbie, and that was a frighteningly good shot largely because it _came from the other building_. That one bullet had started an extraordinary friendship, and Greg went on to describe it as best he can. A huge part of his friend’s life had been solving cases with Sherlock Holmes.  
  
John Watson and Sherlock Holmes had a relationship that was hard to describe. It was hard to talk about one without mentioning the other. They’d become a unit in his mind. Greg could see the way John was amazed and enamoured with Sherlock Holmes, though John wasn’t one to let that keep him from saying no to the impossible man. It wasn’t just John though. Sherlock had also relied on John, in a way Greg didn’t think he’d ever relied on anyone. They were colleagues and flat mates, but above all that, they were best friends, close as brothers. In the end, John had made Sherlock a good man. Sherlock had made John a great one.  
  
“And he is one of the best men I’ve ever known.”  
  
\---  
  
After the casket was lowered, the flowers thrown in, and the grieving group moved away, a man remained and detached himself from the group. With one last glance towards the headstones, he stood under a nearby tree, and pulled out a disposable mobile.   
  
“Affirmative, sir. John Watson is _definitely_ dead, and continued monitoring would not be necessary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We thank everyone who is very patient with our slow progress. Rest assured that this is only because we strive to make this as awesome as we can make it, yeah? :D Also, we said that chapter 5 is almost done... er, woops, sorry, mistake, we found a lot of plot points we have to put in, so you guys might have to wait a little while longer. Thank you for reading!


	7. MOBILE'S APRIL FOOL'S CHAPTER

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is being moved here for the preservation of something we really enjoyed writing but didn't want to keep confusing new readers with.

_Tuesday, 9 October_

 

It had taken two weeks of fruitless searching before John decided to just call Mrs Hudson and ask if she knew how to contact the handyman. He spent an additional week trying to think of a decent reason to bring the man up in a conversation. He didn't believe "that man who installed the brackets under the landing was a hired gun there to shoot you if Sherlock didn't jump" would put his former landlady at ease.

 

John was relieved when the familiar voice of Mrs Hudson answered the phone. God, what if something had happened to her? What if it she wasn’t at Baker Street anymore? He really should check on the people he loved more. He wanted to be as updated as possible, to see how he could help, even from beyond the grave.

 

"Hello?"

 

"Mrs Hudson? It's me. Promised I'd call, yeah?"

 

There was a bit of shuffling on the other side of the phone. It sounded like Mrs Hudson had pulled up a chair. "John! Dear, it's very nice to hear from you! It's been months since I last saw you dear. I hope you weren't too disturbed by the commotion your death had brought on."

 

John cleared his throat, remembering what his death had done to his sister and Greg. All the things they said. Connally had recorded everything, mentioning the futility of death and the beauty of other people’s suffering for loved ones. John had listened out of curiosity...and he regretted every moment of it.

 

"I'm fine, just fine, Mrs H. You're doing okay, I hope?"

 

"The hip's been playing up a bit. The old flat's getting a bit too drafty without you boys around. And you, John?"

 

"Sorry to hear about your hip. Make sure you rest it, doctor's orders. I'd actually called to ask if you knew how to contact that man who installed the brackets under the first landing? Harry's been looking for a good contractor and I promised I'd help find one."

 

"Oh, he did a fine job, very nice work. The brackets look lovely." John listened to a bit of a shuffling on the other side, and the turning of pages. Sherlock had pointed out Mrs Hudson’s notebook once, filled with bits of important information that she didn’t want to forget. It was old and worn, with the cover almost falling away. John wanted to replace it, but Sherlock insisted that Mrs Hudson would prefer her current notepad until it ran out. John had never seen it run out, but he hoped he could buy Mrs Hudson the next one if he comes back, for putting her through so much.

 

"I'll send you the number in a bit. One of Mrs Turner's taught me how to text properly. So kind of him, really. I'm happy you're still in contact with your sister! How is she? She seemed very heartbroken during the funeral."

 

"Oh, Harry's fine. She always did love to be dramatic," he said with frown, regretful about needing to lie to his former landlady. It was better this way though. The less she knew, the safer she was. "That'd be great, ta. Do you happen to remember his name?"

 

\-------

_Thursday, 11 October_

 

He’d read up on his medical jargon, watched some episodes of ER, House and Grey’s Anatomy, rolled his sleeves up, and hoped to god that no one would ask for his help anywhere. It had been a while since Thomas pretended he was a doctor in a hospital, and even then, it never came easy for him. He knew he’d be unable to help people if he was asked to assist, and he would rather not accidentally kill anybody. For all of his many skills, surgery has never been and never will be among them.

 

When they had decided to send him in to talk to one Dr. Molly Hooper, Thomas thought it would be one of his more difficult cons. Surely a doctor wouldn't be easily reeled in by just his charm, and he was prepared to pull out all the stops.

 

Then he saw Molly. After watching her discreetly, he could tell that she seemed more likely to go for someone who would simply _see_ her. Keeping that in mind and seeing her walking toward him,  he began moving as well and bumped into the pretty doctor.

 

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to - " he began and stooped down, collecting all the paperwork Molly had dropped. "Let me help you, I'm sorry, doctor...?"

 

"Oh! Hooper - er, Molly," she said, sounding surprised. Thomas gave her a reassuring smile. "Thank you, Doctor. I'm so sorry, but I don't seem to remember your name. I try to know who everyone is since I do the post-mortems. Oh God, sorry. That was weird, wasn't it?"

 

"Well, I'm new - just flew in from across the pond, so I understand. Dr Carter, Ross Carter. It's very nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper." Thomas handed over the files, fingers ghosting over Molly’s hand. "I'm sorry for bumping into you like this, I'm so clumsy sometimes."

 

He laughed, and rocked back on his heels a little, and studied her for a bit. "Look, let me make it up to you, doctor. How about I take you out for some coffee?"

 

Molly blushed. "Oh, no. I couldn't. Thank you though."

 

Thomas blinked at her in genuine confusion, and mixed in a little bit of pretend hurt. "Really? Was I really that bad?" He smiled apologetically. "I can live with that."

 

"Oh, no! You're not bad at all. I just didn't think someone like you would be interested in someone like me,” she rambled. Her eyes darted everywhere except Thomas’s, and Thomas brushed her shoulder in a reassuring gesture.

 

“You’re beautiful, you seem nice, and you’re a doctor. Any one would be crazy not to want to go out with you,” Thomas said, flashing her another charming smile. “But hey, if you’re off the market, that’s fine. Thanks for letting me down easy. Here, let me help.” He took the pile of documents from Molly before she could protest, and followed her down back to her office, making small talk about the hospital.

 

He made sure to walk halfway out the door before turning around to ask again. “Are you sure that I really can’t take you out for coffee?”

 

“I... yes, I'd like to have coffee. With you. That... that would be lovely, actually.”

 

"I’ll pick you up when your shift ends?"

 

Molly glanced down at her watch, cheeks flushing a light pink. "Yeah. Yeah, sure, it... in five hours, it ends in five hours.”

 

Thomas grinned. "Then I'll see you in five hours.”

 

\------

 

Thomas paused by the door and knocked. It was a good hour before Molly said she would be ready, and he thought that there was a good chance that he would be able to search for Molly’s phone then.

 

"Come in!" came a voice from inside the mortuary. Thomas entered, his eyes roaming everywhere, looking at the different instruments and the row of cabinets. "Doctor Hooper?" he called out.

 

His eyes rested on the body on the table, only a small sheet covering the man's privates. Everything else was displayed inside out. Thomas spun toward the opposite direction, feeling sick. He swallowed to get his stomach back under control before he accidentally threw up his lunch. "You, are definitely busy right now."

 

Not feeling like he was going to puke anymore, he turned back to see Molly standing at a smaller table, watching him with a bemused look.

 

"Oh! Doctor Carter. Am I late?" Molly asked. Her hands were covered in gloves, which were tinted red from dissecting the man’s heart on the table.

 

Thomas took a steady breath, remembering that he was supposed to be a doctor and this was not supposed to be the first time he's seen a cadaver. It wasn't, but he never enjoyed seeing dead people. Especially not with their internal organs everywhere. There was a reason he shied away from guns. "No...no, I'm just early. What happened to him?"

 

"Died on the table. The family asked for an autopsy and I don’t blame them. He was just having his gallbladder out. Shame, really,” Molly answered, glancing back at the body resting on the table. "Do you mind waiting a bit? I’m just finishing up." She frowned. “Are you alright? You’re looking a bit green.”

 

"No, I’m fine," he murmured, taking care to _not_ look at the body again. He swallowed a second time, clenching his fists to keep his gag reflex under control. "Mind if I stay in your office?"

 

"That's fine. I’m almost done, really."

 

"Thanks," Thomas said. He quietly let himself into the office, scanning the small room. She had added a personal touch with flowers and small plushies peppering the stark white of the hospital walls in pinks and yellows. He shook his head, smiling at how the office felt so much like that pretty doctor currently sewing a man back together. Peeking through the door, he could see that Molly was facing away from him and began his search.  He quickly spotted her purse under the desk and fished her phone out. Thomas scrolled through the messages, taking note of the names as quickly as he could. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary but any of random people here might be Sherlock Holmes. Molly didn’t exactly strike Thomas as a master of deception though. It was more likely that the detective used various burner phones to contact her, so the number would be unknown.

 

Of course, Molly wasn’t an idiot, and she had obviously deleted all of the messages. He was almost proud of her for that.

 

But, Molly was still _Molly_ , and from what he knew of her crush on the detective,  it was very possible that Sherlock had sent something  she thought was worth keeping. With that, Thomas opened her saved messages, immediately spotting an unknown number. He clicked open.

 

The message was obvious. It was definitely from Sherlock Holmes. Thomas _had_ him. He grinned smugly for a moment before he heard the sink in the lab turn on. He was out of time.

 

He’d put the phone away before Molly was even done washing her hands. 

 

Molly appeared in the doorway, sans bloody gloves and white lab coat. “Alright, I’m all done,” she said, smiling shyly. 

 

Thomas had arranged himself comfortably in her chair, looking like he’d been that way for a while. He smiled and stood, gesturing to the door with his hands. "Great. Shall we go?"

 

Molly nodded and retrieved her purse from under the desk. He watched nervously as she pulled out her cellphone to check for messages. "There's a coffee shop nearby, on Fleet Place. We could um, walk?" Thomas released the breath he’d been holding as Molly slipped the phone back into her purse and grabbed a sweater from a coat hanger in the corner. 

 

"Sure. I'd love to see more of London, anyway." Thomas replied and pushed open the office door, letting Molly lead the way. 

 

They walked in almost awkward silence to the cafe until Thomas started up a conversation about the weather, with the sun shining through spatters of clouds, mentioning how different it was from home. Thomas started gesturing at random people, making up stories about how they move and talk and _why_ , purposefully reminding Molly about Sherlock Holmes. It was a dirty trick, yes, but it was important. She had to think about Sherlock and not be on her guard about it. Thomas was quite good at guessing how and why people did what they did - he was an artist, after all, and artists have a way of seeing into people’s souls - and Molly had smiled at his stories.

 

They were sad smiles, with the corners of her mouth tucked up rather shyly, and none of them reached her eyes. Molly, in that split second, seemed like the sort of person you want to protect from the world.

 

Dammit Thomas, focus.

 

"So, how long have you been working at St. Bart's?” he asked almost out of the blue, to move the topic to something less Sherlock like and more Molly. Best not make her suspicious.

 

"Five years last May," she replied to him. There was a sort of startled look in her eyes, as if she was surprised at the sudden topic change. Like her mind had been elsewhere entirely.

 

Good, that was good. It made Thomas feel guilty to exploit her this way.

 

"So you like it there, then?"

 

"Yes, I do. The people are lovely. When I see them, I mean." Molly twirled a finger around the end of her hair, and it made her look less like the pathologist who does autopsies every day and more like a bashful, charming young woman out for a walk.

 

Thomas gave her a slightly puzzled look. "They don't like visiting you down there? I thought that your little cubbyhole with all the dead bodies was quite endearing. I love what you did to your office, honestly. It was cozy. It felt more like you, I suppose."

 

Molly stumbled mid-step when she turned to look at Thomas, her eyes widened in shock.  Thomas caught her by the arm, and gently pulled her upright before she could fall. Apparently it wasn’t an opinion that she heard every day because she was still staring at him like he was an alien. "You don't think it's odd that I work in the morgue?"

 

"The dead need someone to solve their puzzles, don't you think? Not everyone can do what you do."

 

Molly brightened. Finally, someone who understood her. Thomas wasn’t faking all of it. "That's why I decided to be a pathologist.”

 

"There's nothing odd about that. We all have our places in the world," Thomas said with another smile. He lost himself in his own memories, ones concerning tall buildings and heists. One way or another, his world revolved around them, and he knew he didn’t belong here. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. Things were still too fresh, what he had left behind.

 

Sometimes, during jobs, one ran into things that needed to be resolved even if there was no time to do so. Thomas had perfected the ability of tucking them away until he had to deal with them.

 

"You looked sad, just now."

 

Of course she noticed. Perceptive. It was a bit unnerving.

 

"Hm?" Thomas hummed questioningly. "What do you mean?"

 

Molly met his gaze. There wasn’t any pity in her brown eyes, only a sad brush of understanding. "When you said that bit about having our places in the world, you looked sad."

 

Thomas shrugged. "I still have to find my own niche. It's a process. Know anyone like that?"

 

Molly looked away. "I do...did. They died recently. Sorry, that's not something one talks about while getting coffee, is it?"

 

"No, it's fine. We could try for small talk, but that's…" Thomas laughed a little. "That's boring, isn't it?"

 

"Do you think so? My er, my friend, he thought a lot of things were boring." She laughed softly. It crept into her eyes a bit this time. Thomas decided it looked good on her.

 

"Your friend's smart." They finally reached the café, and Thomas pulled out a chair for Molly before sitting down himself. "We could try it. 'Hello, Molly, nice weather we're having.'" He changed his voice a little into a faux, smaller one. It was cheesy, he knew, but it made Molly’s eyes light up even more. "'Why yes, Ross, it is, quite.' 'Do you like your coffee?' 'Yes, yes I do. How about you?' 'I am enjoying it, thank you.'"

 

He laughed a little more. "It's just not interesting." He gave a quick grin before transitioning to a more somber expression. "I'm sorry about your friend. Would you like to talk about it?

 

Molly’s smile dimmed a little. "Oh, not really. Sorry. It's just...he meant a lot to me, still does. I knew him for most of the time I worked at Bart's."

 

"I know what you mean. It's not easy being left behind, I know." Thomas breathed in. As he had told John, an ounce of truth always goes a long way. "You know why I'm here, in London?" He looked around the café and dropped his façade a bit.  "I was trying to get away from something that I did back in America, but now…. Now I don't think leaving was worth it. Maybe, just maybe, if I’d stuck it out… I wouldn't have hurt the people I cared about."

 

"Can't you go back? It's not too late to apologize. I'm sure they'd forgive you." Her voice was soft and caring. It struck a chord in him, and he clenched his fist slightly to pull it back together. Molly thought she was invisible and she became so. She thought she was unimportant and so Moriarty saw her as unnecessary in his plans. Maybe that was why Sherlock Holmes chose her to help in his disappearing act. This invisibility placed her in the best position to perceive things as they were.

 

"I can't. It's complicated," Thomas said, shaking his head. "I wish I could.” He avoided eye contact, giving the impression that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Let me get the drinks, then we could talk more.” He stood up smoothly, smiling when Molly told him her order.

 

He came back a few minutes later with steaming mugs and a couple of pastries. Taking a bite of a cherry danish, he tried to resume the conversation. “Anyway, we were talking about your friend."

 

Molly gave a short nod, although she seemed like she didn’t hear him. She looked thoughtful. "You're still alive, it can't be that complicated,” she said almost to herself, but loud enough that Thomas could still hear. Molly looked up. “Couldn't you at least phone them?” She blushed when she realized that Thomas had asked to change the subject. “Er, sorry, I shouldn't pry."

 

Thomas barely kept from snickering. She was still thinking about his predicament. It was endearing and refreshing to have people around him care again. "No, no it's fine.” He was running from a whole lot of things, from the things he did, in both the distant and the recent past. He knew he shouldn't have left, but going back now would be suicide. “Sometimes, I think it's better if they think I'm dead. Then I wouldn't have to drag them into my mess." He looked at Molly, sincere appreciation on his face ."But thank you, though. If it really is that easy, I will."

 

Molly placed a hand on Thomas’s, almost thoughtlessly. "I hope, for your sake, that you will be able to tell them someday. I have a friend who doesn't have the chance to do that anymore. They refuse to talk about it. It's sad," she said, staring at the table. When she realized where her hand was, Molly pulled it back like she’d burned it.

 

“Yes, I hope so too." Thomas said faintly. He reached out and placed a hand on her’s, to reassure her that it was alright to talk. “What happened? If I can ask, that is."

 

Molly hesitated. "He committed suicide. It was rather sudden," she admitted, sipping her coffee.

 

"That's really awful. I'm sorry." Thomas said. He squeezed her hand softly, encouraging her to continue, and hoped that his open demeanor would encourage her to share more. If he pried too much, it would become too obvious and Molly would clam up.

 

He wasn’t completely heartless. Thomas knew Molly needed this. Even though it wasn’t part of the plan, why not help her with this? It’s the least he can do, aside from the coffee, for conning information out of her.

 

Molly nodded. "He uh, he must have felt like he was alone. There was this case, he was a doctor too, and he was being called a fraud. His name was ruined and he…he shot himself. I wish he had talked to me."

 

"I'm sorry, I really am." Thomas sighed. "Maybe - you know, maybe I should have told them back home..." home, he thought wryly, he still thought of what he’d left as home, "...and maybe I could have prevented a lot of things from happening. I've lost their trust, and I don't think I could go back." He looked away for effect, squeezed Molly's hand again, and let go. He took a sip from his mug, frowning at the cooling temperature.

 

"My friend, the one who is alive, he hasn't even been to the cemetery. At least, I don't think he has. He's started travelling a lot."

 

There you go. That was what he wanted to hear. He encouraged the topic with a nod. "I've done a bit of travelling as well. It's - when you want to forget…." Thomas shook his head. "You want to keep moving. Away. Further." Thomas laughed at the similarities between his situation and Sherlock Holmes. "It's unhealthy."

 

Molly nodded. She looked more relaxed, as if she was happy that she finally found someone to talk to. Someone who understood. "I'm worried about him. What he's been through...it's not easy. They were, best friends I think."

 

Thomas appeared to think for a moment. This was good, this was _really_ good.

 

Too good.

 

It shouldn't make him feel this guilty.

 

"I left behind a - guess he was my best friend, too. Definitely was the one who pulled me out of some bad habits." He sipped again from his cup. "Feels nice to talk about this." He met Molly’s gaze over the table. "It isn't easy. It's… I say I don't get attached, I can't, with my type of work - I loved to go around and travel on missions, you see - but… it's still hard. Some days, I just want to go home."

 

Thank god Molly knew absolutely nothing about Thomas, or else this would be a pretty embarrassing spill, and he wouldn't hear the end of it from anyone in his circle.

 

This time Molly grabbed his hand and gave it a slight squeeze. "I'm sorry," she said.

 

"Thank you. I hope your friend can come home, too. Just to get him some closure."

 

"Feelings have never been Sher-ringford's strong suit." Molly abruptly lost all color to her face, and Thomas thought she was going to faint.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked, eyebrows knitted in concern. He held a hand to her to steady her, but she flinched away.

 

Molly glanced at her watch quickly. Suddenly, she looked very eager to leave, and Thomas wasn’t going to prolong her agony. It must have been painful to feel like she almost betrayed Sherlock Holmes to a relative stranger. He hoped she doesn’t dwell on it too much. "I’m fine, I’m fine, but I have to go - late for something, I just realised.. Thanks for the coffee. It was lovely." She stood up a bit shakily.

 

"Will I see you at work tomorrow?" Thomas stood up as well. He felt like he needed to make it up to Molly. The woman looked pale, too pale, but Thomas had what he needed.  He was sure that he had the confirmation John had wanted. The army doctor was going to be elated. Or pissed off.

 

Molly nodded faintly.

 

Thomas held out a hand. "Are you okay? Sorry if this whole thing upset you, it's not really the sort of topic you talk about during a first date." Thomas laughed a bit to ease Molly. "Let's do a proper one, tomorrow, maybe...?" He grinned and continued. "Although I'd need your number for that."

 

"Oh! Right, of course."  She grabbed a napkin and took a pen from her purse, writing down the number. "Thank you. I think talking about it helped a bit. I've got to run though. It was nice to meet you," she rattled off before dashing out the door.

 

Thomas gave a slight wave, and stuffed the napkin into his pocket. When he was sure Molly wasn’t going to turn back, he took out his phone, and dialed John. "Hey, Mr. Dent, great news. We've got your friend."

 

\-----

 

John was just about to take his lunch break when his "John" phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered as he clocked out, and Thomas’ smooth voice gave him the news.

 

_We’ve got your friend._

 

They had him, they _actually_ had him, and he was _right_. His hand shook, but his voice was steady. "Great timing. I'm just leaving for my lunch break. I'll meet you where we’ve talked about.”

 

"Will be there in ASAP."

 

John half-ran to Prezzo’s a restaurant halfway between the Starbuck’s he worked at Saint Bart’s.  He spotted Thomas immediately. "Thomas," John greeted, taking a seat. "You said we found him?"

 

"Mr 'Sherringford'. But that was Ms Hooper's slip of the tongue, so we aren't sure what alias he is using now. But, John..." Thomas broke into a huge grin. "He is _definitely_ alive. I saw a text message from him, and Ms Hooper confirmed it."

 

"Don't use that name in public," he hissed, looking around to make sure no one was listening. No one appeared to be. John knew his name was fairly common, but he didn't want to attract any more unwanted attention like what happened on the bus.  "What did the text say?"

 

"No one can hear us, John. You're getting as bad as Connally," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair. "It just assures us he's alive.”

 

That wasn’t what John asked. Thomas was dodging the question, and it was beginning to piss John off. He didn’t have time for Thomas’s games; the text might be relevant. Sherlock liked sending texts that had multiple meanings, and this might be one of them - but John wouldn’t know until he knew what the message was. "Tell me what the text said. It might have a clue or a lead…something that will let me know where he is."

 

"I'm not entirely sure that is a great idea," Thomas said quietly.

 

"I need to know what it said. Please."

 

The other man sighed in defeat. He took out his phone, and John watched him as he typed. Within a few seconds, John’s phone beeped, and he read the message.

 

Five words. Just five words and it felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

 

_I should have told him._

 

He closed his eyes, clenching the phone tightly. He couldn’t think about how much he’d hurt Sherlock, _not now_. He couldn’t afford the distraction at the moment.

 

Thomas was silent. "I wish he had, too," he murmured. "I am sorry you had to find out this way. But he's alive. I don’t think Ms Hooper knows where he is, but he is alive, and he hasn't been by your grave yet."

 

John nodded, wondering if Sherlock would even bother to stop by his "grave". He'd probably find it boring, or the idea of it full of ridiculous sentiment. He glanced at his watch, noticing his hour was almost up. "Time for me to head back. Could you install some cameras to watch the gravesite tomorrow?"

 

"I'll get Connally to do it. I can't."

 

"Can't?"

 

"I have a date tomorrow." Thomas grinned, looking entirely too pleased with himself, like a cat who’d just caught a mouse. "Would you like me to set you up with one? I'd make it a double date, Arthur, but you can't tag along tomorrow, sorry."

 

"Ha, very funny. When did you manage to get a date between talking to Molly and….” It dawned on John, and he almost spat out his drink. John wasn’t sure whether to stare in awe or something else. The audacity of this man. “No. You're not serious. You asked her out after conning information out of her?"

 

"I didn’t con anything out of her. We had a coffee date, we talked.  I shared some things about me, and she shared some things about her. One of those things just happened to be about Mr Sherringford."

 

John shook his head, giving up. "All right, fine. Fine. Molly's had bad luck in the dating department, don't lead her on.” He knew he sounded like he was scolding, but really, even if he didn’t know Molly very well she did not deserve a terrible date. “She dated Moriarty for chrissakes."

 

Thomas grimaced. "Wow. I assume that didn't work out well." He looked at John, completely serious. "I am not leading Molly on. I happen to genuinely think she's nice, and why shouldn't I get to know her? Besides, it would be a great way to keep tabs on your friends, don't you think?"

 

"It's fine. It's all fine," John said, standing. He smiled. Sherlock was alive, _definitely_ alive, and that...that was good. That was definitely good. "I'll contact you later. Ta."

 

\------

 

_Tuesday, 16 October_

 

The paper the number is on was crumbled and almost half torn. John had been fiddling with it for the past couple of days, making sure it was the perfect time to call the handyman or _Jack Aranski_ , as he’d found out from multiple contacts that he’d scrounged up. Today was the day he’d marked down on his mental calendar, and so today was the day he punched in the numbers. Slowly, with each number sure and precise.

 

It rang out.

 

John frowned, double checked and _made sure_ that it was the correct number from Mrs Hudson, and tried again. This was the only lead he had to finding Sherlock, and it _had_ to go well. He could not afford mistakes or delays - he did plan on coming back to the land of the living, sooner rather than later. 

 

When the man at the other end answered, all John heard was some distorted breathing. "Hello?" he asked through the new vocal distorter Thomas had insisted on him purchasing. "Are you the handyman, Mr Isaenko? My friend passed along this number and I was hoping to get some brackets installed."

 

"Who is this?" The lilt and the tone of voice sounded familiar, though not quite right. The man sounded posh, which confused John. He swore Mrs Hudson said that he was a foreigner.

 

John licked his lips, deciding which alias to give. He wanted to catch Aranski’s attention.  "Dixon. Hector Dixon." He had to suppress his inner Bond fan to keep from laughing at his own joke, corny as it was. John had learned to grasp at all sorts of things to make him happy bit by bit if he wants to survive in not-so-agreeable circumstances.

 

"Mr Dixon. What may I do for you?"

 

For a supposed assassin, he was awfully polite. It was a bit disconcerting. "Perhaps we could arrange a meeting...to talk about my brackets that need installing."

 

"My old customer was satisfied with the brackets I did for her, I take it?”

 

John Watson was merely human, and the conversation was starting to sound... appallingly creepy. He coughed awkwardly into his hand. "Yes, quite. Quite er, satisfied. Do you have an office or...?"

 

"I think the EMD Cinema at 19:00 would suffice."

 

Right. Definitely _not_ a handyman, then. Although John hadn’t expected anything else, it was reassuring to have it confirmed. "Interesting place for a business meeting. I'll be there." He let out a breath as he ended the call. The man sounded terribly familiar, even if John wasn’t sure why. It didn’t matter. He was going to find out soon enough.

 

\-----

 

John had brought the Beretta along. It was a comforting weight at the small of his back as he entered the dark, dingy cinema. He’d done his research before leaving, finding a small paragraph on Jack Aranski: hired gun from Belarus, single, dependable follower, eager to please, not too bright, with probable connections to Moriarty. He vaguely remembered what the man looked like; he honestly hadn't been paying much attention. He'd only gotten one glance of the bulky European, far too concerned about Mrs Hudson, and after seeing she was all right, he'd bolted without a backward glance. Sherlock had been in danger. He clenched his fists. He had been too late, anyway. If he had  arrived just five minutes earlier, it could have gone remarkably different, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to hide behind various aliases. Neither would John.

 

He sighed inaudibly. This wasn’t the time to beat himself up; he needed to focus. Focus. John looked around a bit, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting, paying particular attention to the shadows. The cinema appeared empty. He was either the first to arrive, or Aranski was watching him from somewhere.

 

"There are a lot of other repairmen in the phonebook, Mr Dixon. Why would you need my services?" 

The voice was recogniseable, _very_ recognisable, but with that Scottish undertone it was difficult to place. It seemed off, a few octaves _wrong_ somehow.

 

That was a red flag, however, what the man had said. He sounded intent on not taking a job - and John knew that he was certainly, _definitely_ , the person that John needed. "I've never met a handyman so intent on avoiding a job, especially if the money's good," John answered, reaching behind his back for the gun.

 

"Mr Dixon, we both know I am not the handyman you’re looking for." The accent slipped just _there_ , as if the man was enjoying a private joke. The voice sounded like the man was smiling, and the Scottish accent bled out into something _definitely_ familiar.

 

John was reminded of a three-day Star Wars marathon, plenty of popcorn and coke, a case involving a broken toy lightsaber and endlessly ‘using the Force’ on Anderson’s ‘feeble mind’.

 

It was John Watson, with a Beretta, in an abandoned theater, killing a dead man. "I think you're _exactly_ the handyman I've been searching for, now come out here so I can kill you myself, you bloody wanker.” John stepped closer toward the direction from which the voice had been coming from.  “JUMP OFF A BUILDING WILL YOU AND MAKE ME WATCH? YOU, SHERLOCK HOLMES, ARE A CLOT!"

 

Sherlock Holmes stepped out of the shadows and lowered his gun, looking very confused, and quite shocked. His mouth opened and closed a few times, and he stared, simply stared at John, blinking. His now-black hair made him look years younger, in contrast to his older, weather-beaten face, and he looked like an emo teenager fresh from University hell, especially with his hair cropped just so. The man was even wearing black, with a black jumper beneath a long coat. It was as dramatic and cliché as the villain in a movie.

 

John was actually concerned, for a moment, and stepped forward to check if the man was going into some form of psychological shock. They had a term for it, on those blogs he’d roamed to look for clues on Sherlock’s death. It had something to do with smashing keyboards and verbs.

 

The movement seemed to have shaken Sherlock out of his state, and actual words managed to slip out. "What on - John? But you're...dead. You mean to tell me you've been alive all this time, and you pretended to be dead to...” His eyes narrowed at John, but softened with confusion. “Is this revenge for all those times I've brought home heads to put in the fridge?"

 

John sighed audibly. He replaced his gun into it’s concealed spot and threw his hands up in exasperation. "Yes, Sherlock, this is revenge for all the body parts and the experiments. I thought you jumping off St Barts was the perfect opportunity and went through the trouble of legally killing myself just for some petty revenge!" he barked, thinking about the months of frustrated searching. 

 

Sherlock shuffled a little, looking very much like a scolded child. John was almost certain he was going to scuff a shoe against the floor. "You could've simply phoned Mycroft," the detective stated.

 

John looks at the ceiling, grasping for some semblance of patience before snarking a reply. "You could have phone Mrs Hudson."

 

"Why on earth would I phone her?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. “I was in hiding. It would be illogical to phone her while I’m in hiding for _her_ safety.”

 

John scowled. "Why would _I_ have phoned _Mycroft_?" he parroted. “I am pretending to be _dead_. It would be just _plain wrong_ for a dead man to phone the British Government when he isn’t even _supposed_ to be alive!”

 

Sherlock leveled a look at John, one that John _definitely_ did not miss. The one that stated that everyone was an idiot, and John was being an idiot, and Sherlock didn’t know why he was tolerating such nonsense. "To ask about whether I was still alive. It would have been a perfectly logical question. I left you plenty of clues already, and if you had phoned Mycroft and presented him with all the evidence you would have known I was still alive."

 

John straightened and inhaled deeply, deciding to let the matter go. He doubted that Mycroft would have told him the truth even if he _had_ asked, anyway. Mycroft was great at manipulating the truth. John was certain he would have prepared a version of the truth to cover up Sherlock’s death. "You've taken care of one of the snipers then, since you're here?"

 

Sherlock gave a nod. "Yes. I still have a couple left.” He knotted his forehead. “Why should I have phoned Mrs Hudson?"

 

"Because she could have told you I was alive, idiot."

 

Sherlock paused, and appeared to consider it. "...that, admittedly, would have made everything much easier."

 

"Bit late for that though.” John glanced around. The cinema seemed to be less menacing now that a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He’d found Sherlock in a drafty old cinema. Somehow he thought it would be a bit more dramatic than that.

 

Oh well. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “What now, then? I assume there's a fair amount of paperwork to come back from the dead?"

 

"Yes. Mycroft explained everything, once.” Sherlock appeared to scan John, and John resisted the urge to raise his arms up and turn around for his friend’s perusal. Sherlock frowned. "How did you do it?"

 

"You mean you can't figure it out on your own? Some genius detective you are." John said, looking particularly smug. He couldn’t help it. He bested _the_ Sherlock Holmes. He was allowed to be smug.

 

Sherlock circled him like an inspector from one of those old detective shows John used to watch. "I assume you had someone in the Met helping you, because Molly couldn't have. Did you ask Greg?"

 

 John slowly followed Sherlock with his eyes. "No..uh, Greg doesn't know.” He stopped. “Hang on, did you just call him Greg?” John was surprised that Sherlock had finally remembered the DI’s name. “Of course Molly helped you. She'd do bloody anything for you."

 

"Who was it then, Donovan?"

 

A smile crept on the corner of John’s mouth. Sherlock would not like his answer. "Not Sally either, though I hear she feels very guilty about what happened."

 

Sherlock sounded sharp and rather suspicious now. "Then who did you ask?"

 

"Anderson," John mumbled, reconsidering. Maybe it wasn’t something he should be smug about, after all.

 

"Who?"

 

"Anderson," he repeated, watching Sherlock carefully. John wasn’t sure if he was going to enjoy this or not.

 

This was the first time John had ever seen the equal portions of annoyance, disbelief, and impression on anyone’s face. "Anderson. You asked _Anderson_ to help you. _Anderson_." He raised his head rather highly, and rolled his eyes. "Well. Who knew that he was capable of doing something correctly."

 

"I'm sure he'd be thrilled to hear the closest thing to a compliment you'll ever give him."

 

"But he surely could not have provided you with a body, multiple secret IDs, and-" Sherlock turned to John suddenly, taking him by the shoulders. John started in slight surprise as Sherlock shook him. "No. John, the fewer people who know what you're going to do, the better! How would it remain a secret if every living thing on earth knows that you would still be alive?"

 

"Yes, well, in the event we ever have to fake our deaths again, we can both use the British Government to help do it properly." John’s flat grimace quickly turned into a smile as he realised something. "Besides, I kept it from you, didn't I?"

 

"Yes." Sherlock grudgingly admitted, turning away slightly. John could still see the smile light up his face anyway. "That was rather impressive, I suppose." 

 

"Did...did you just compliment me for besting you?” John teased, grinning with mock confusion. “I must be asleep. All of this is some weird dream my brain cooked up."

 

Sherlock turned to John with the same, genuine smile still on his face. "I assure you John, you are not dreaming."

 

John placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, as if to assure himself that everything was indeed real. Sherlock tensed slightly, but he glanced at John, inclining his head in reassurance. John relaxed, satisfied with the physical contact. Sherlock really was here, and everything was real. His search was over. John was _done._

 

He plopped down on the seat beside Sherlock, dust billowing at the movement. "I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing." John rubbed his temples, and glanced at Sherlock. "I could really use a vacation. A permanent vacation."

 

"I could arrange that."

 

John looked at Sherlock thoughtfully as the other man sat beside John, as well. He squinted against the dust suddenly in his eyes. "You could use one too, you know. A permanent vacation."

 

"That would be nice, yes." The words came with a small sigh, and Sherlock’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. Sherlock glanced at John, and smiled tiredly.

 

John laughed, feeling lighter than he had in months. He hadn't giggled like this since Sherlock had worn just his bed sheet to the Buckingham Palace, and that felt like it was ages ago. "Where should we spend our afterlife then?"

 

"Somewhere that isn't _boring_ ," Sherlock answered, without missing a beat. "Where they would not be able to disturb us for a long, long time."

 

"How about an island in the Philippines? You won't be able to flip up your coat collar though."

 

"Preferably somewhere without the sun." Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the thought. "Isn't the Philippines a tropical country?"

 

John sniggered a bit, glancing Sherlock from head to toe, staring at his long coat. "I knew you were secretly a vampire. You suggest somewhere then." He blinked as he realised something. "I'm surprised you know what a tropical country is. Yes, it is."

 

Sherlock grimaced, recalling. "There was a case involving seafood, mild poisoning, and a very interesting rock.” He glanced at an arm in disdain, raising it away from himself as if it was wet. “I hate sea water."

 

John shrugged. "How about New Zealand then?” When Sherlock gave him a blank look, John clarified. “Where they filmed the Lord of the Rings films?"

 

"Isn't that surrounded by sea water, as well?"

 

Typical Sherlock and his selective memory. John chuckled. "Technically, so is England."

 

"Wherever you want to go, John.” Sherlock sank further into the chair, and smiled at John a little.” I don't want to stay here any longer. As long as I can do my experiments and occasionally consult on interesting cases and have you there with me, I'll be fine."

 

John nodded. For a second there, just for a second, he thought Sherlock was going to refuse. He smiled. "Deal. To the airport?"

 

"Yes.” Sherlock stood up, suddenly recharged, and brushed dust out of his coat. He stretched an arm out lazily, and produced a credit card in his palm. John blinked at the smooth sleight of hand. “We're charging everything to Mycroft's credit card until we figure out how to completely disappear."

 

"He deserves it." John nodded solemnly.

 

Sherlock led the way out of the cinema, and John followed. "Let's simply take the first trip out of this country. Would that work as well?"

 

"Wherever is fine, as long as we don't end up anywhere near the Reichenbach Falls." 

 

The two men looked at each other, nodded, and started giggling. John shook his head with a smile, and watched as Sherlock hailed a taxi. A cab smoothly pulled over.

 

Sherlock glanced at John, and gestured at the door. "Let's go."

 

**_EPILOGUE_ **

 

Mycroft let out an overly controlled breath as he read his bill. His brother and the doctor had disappeared without a trace, but not without leaving Mycroft over a million pounds of credit to be paid. Sherlock was lucky that his trust fund was still full, or else Mycroft would hunt him to the ends of the earth for this. 

 

Greg, bless his soul, was fired from the Yard. He took up being a consulting detective and lived in 221B because Mrs Hudson insisted on having someone who knew the boys stay there. Sally became the head of the department and consulted with his old boss, and Anderson was still the butt of all jokes in the Yard. Thomas and Connally had moved on to other jobs, and Harry got back with Clara,and Henry ended up with Molly.

 

As for Sherlock and John, John dedicated his life to a small clinic in the town they landed in, and Sherlock became the town eccentric whom everyone, weirdly enough, tolerated. He took on the name Jeremy Law and John took on Jude Brett,  and they kept bees and solved crimes in their spare time. 

 

And everyone lived happily ever after. Except Sebastian. Because Jim’s dead.


End file.
